Sniper

As if part of the land Masha merges into the rubble. A file of battle-weary Wehrmacht fighters passes.

The last is in her sights.

She had hunted deer in Siberia. They never detected her, so camouflage in Stalingrad’s snow-clad ruins is easy.

Deer, she respects, sharers of the Motherland, killing only for meat.

These Nazi scum are vermin. She would exterminate them all if she could.

She aims for the chest to mortally wound. He falls.

Two comrades rush back to help.

Her next two bullets pass through their foreheads.

She scurries off undetected, three more notches to her name.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Drought’s End

It was almost dark and he pulled into his driveway a happy man.

He had planned to be home in time for lunch, or at least to be at home at lunchtime, home in time for his favorite talking heads to read him the news he’d missed in the morning while he showered so as to make himself presentable at his favorite café, his best black journal open, crying out for him not to allow yet another eight-day lapse without so much as a single penstroke.

It was almost dark and he was happy to have generated three whole sentences.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Wheatfield With Crows

He presented himself at Licensed Brothel No. 1 and asked with formal politeness for the girl named Rachel. When she appeared, dressed for work in stockings and a slip, he handed her his ear (or, more precisely, the lower half of his left ear, wrapped in cloth). “Guard this object carefully,” he said without prelude, and you would’ve thought he was bestowing on her a fabulous piece of art. Then he turned and walked away. She was accustomed to getting freaky requests from men in her boudoir, but this was a first. The police said call if it happened again.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Memorials

Through the fog and overgrowth that chokes the front yard, an eruption of tulips grows on either side of the doorway, an invitation to visitors that stopped visiting decades ago. They are the only splash of color on the otherwise gray facade of the crumpling structure that used to be a house.

Tulips once required cold weather to survive. Somehow these plants learned to adapt, and are now in flower nearly year round. A stark contrast to the failure of civilization all around them. Were anyone still alive who could understand, there's a metaphor to be found in those plants.

The Beats

Gregory Corso was sitting in the window of Allen Ginsberg's East Village apartment – two, three hours, just sitting in silence. He had vowed to himself not to be a willing participant to any further chaos. Just to be every day, it took everything. You could be having a really nice time at the beach or the park one minute and in the next minute there could be cops with meaty red faces gassing and clubbing you. Once at a reading some lady asked him, “What’s an id?” and he waited a bit before answering, “Eighteenth-century sea captains carousing in Surinam.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Titanic Sails at Dawn (Alien Buddha Press, 2019).

The Great Screen

Hiro couldn’t stand it. Every day, the same routine of work, eat and sleep gnawed at his core like a termite. So one day, he lay down, refusing to work.

Though he eventually starved, news of his acquiescence spread throughout his country. Hiro’s fellow humans followed suit across the globe until soon, the entire species rejected the daily grind.

Without such toil, the collective energy - generated from human labor that had for eons fueled the great screen obscuring the viewing capacity of even the most powerful telescopes - dissipated.

Suddenly revealed, the entities beyond abandoned their observation of Earth.

From Guest Contributor S.F. Katz

Foot Steps

Becky was halfway across her pottery studio when she heard the deadbolt click. She froze.

She escaped a mugging three months ago, but it cost a prize dish. She broke the pottery piece on his face. Blood gushed everywhere and his screams still haunt her at night. Hours flipping through mug shots at the police station yielded no suspects. That was it. Except she had this eerie feeling she was being followed. A lot. She had been more than careful until now. She didn’t lock the door when she entered the studio. The sound of footsteps came in her direction.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The Raven And The Crow

The raven saw the crow perched on the church spire in the middle of town and demanded he make himself scarce.

"I'm the king of the birds and I deserve the best roost."

The crow scoffed. "I don't think so."

The raven puffed up his feathers and flapped his wings threateningly, but the crow was unimpressed. As they were almost exactly the same size, it was unclear who would win in a fight.

"You're a crow, no different than me. Just because one time a woman mistook you for a raven doesn't mean you're better than the rest of us."

Spy Culture

Just before dawn, the train barreled across the border. My carryall bag on the overhead rack contained an entire set of ant-dreams preserved in amber. Spies lurked everywhere, but, after the train pulled in, I evaded them by frequently changing my facial expressions. Later that day, I traveled by sampan and pedicab to meet my contact, an experienced agent posing as an English nanny. We met in a neighborhood playground beside a tree whose round fruit the children pretended were bombs. At one point I forgot the word “cremated” and had to ask her, “What’s it called – incinerating the body?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Titanic Sails at Dawn (Alien Buddha Press, 2019).

The Perils Of The New York City Subway

As a child, Jaime loved the subway. No car seats. Strange people. Traveling underground in a long tunnel. She couldn't wait to be old enough to ride into the city on her own.

She remembered how fucking innocent she used to be. Now she hates the subway. Especially the strange people.

Today for instance. The only available seat's in the corner. Right next to the cocoon. It's been growing for weeks. It used to be a rider, but now he's pupating on the D Train.

Jaime sits. It's not the grossest thing she's witnessed on the New York City subway.